


Navy

by lamagicienne



Series: Shades of Blue [5]
Category: Olympics RPF, Sports RPF, Swimming RPF
Genre: Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Rivalry, Slow Build, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-18 03:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamagicienne/pseuds/lamagicienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By now, there are two Tylers in Michael’s mind. There’s the one who is brash and self-righteous and a firm believer in his own moral superiority. And there’s the other one who is vulnerable and insecure and unaware of his own desires.</p><p>Shades of Blue series, part V (Tyler Clary/Michael Phelps, Ryan Lochte/Michael Phelps)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I shamelessly stole a scene from the movie “Seven”. Enjoy anyway.

I

Michael sets about working at Club Wolverine with three resolutions, all derived from personal experiences he’d rather not repeat if given the choice.

Never ever engage in trash talk about or start a fight with Clary – and in case Clary starts one, refrain from adding to the fire and just ignore him.

Never ever utter the word “Beijing” in front of Cavic.

Never ever kick a student out of practice. 

By the end of his second week in Ann Arbor, he has broken every single one of them. 

When he was eleven or twelve, Michael got kicked out of practice on a regular basis for all kinds of reasons, some justified in his own eyes (nearly drowning Marty by pulling his ankle from below wasn’t a great idea in hindsight) others not so much (maybe it was actually Bob who sucked at explaining Thorpe’s freestyle and not Michael who sucked at executing it). Either way, Michael remembers the sinking feeling when he was being banned from his aqueous refuge all too clearly. Just in case any of his students feel the same way about their pool, Michael’s determined not to stoop to that level.    

And then – two nine-year-olds pick morning practice to start a fight and before he knows it Michael has to prevent Dave Cavanagh from dropping a medicine ball on his very pale training partner. This is one of the possible situations Michael received warnings from pretty much everyone who heard about him coaching minors: how to resolve a physical conflict without _touching_ your pupils. Because that sort of thing – whether in kind or as a sort of disciplinary measure can lead to ugly accusations faster than lightning.

So instead of grabbing Dave’s arm or just lifting his small frame from the ground as would be the easiest way, Michael just hooks his index finger into the opening of the boy’s sweatshirt sleeve, effectively preventing him from hitting his teammate. Dave possesses the grace to look embarrassed when he yanks his head around and sees who’s stopped him.

Michael shakes his head. “You don’t want to do that.”

Dave wants to, all right. Michael can see it in his eyes, but underneath, there is something else – a kind of thinly veiled satisfaction at the attention he’s receiving thanks to this stunt. That, Michael thinks, is not a good sign at all. He would know. He, too, once was a child who liked to provoke his coach.

Michael would like to think that his decision has more to do with Dave having been a pain in the ass all morning (and all the mornings before), but he knows deep down he’s trying to for now put an end to Dave’s efforts to attract attention. Later he considers kicking himself for letting his own hang-ups interfere with how he treats his pupils.    

“You think too much on it,” Milorad dismisses him when Michael tells him what happened. “The little shit-stirrer had it coming. I had to teach him last fall when he was still one of the cubs. Yelled on occasion, too. You didn’t yell, did you?”

“No,” Michael admits. Maybe he should have tried raising his voice first.

“Good for you,” Milorad nods appreciatively. “Between the two of us, you’re clearly the more patient person – but we knew that already.”

 _Did we?_ Michael frowns. “If you say so. Still, kicking someone out is kind of an extreme measure. You don’t think he’ll complain to his parents about it?”

Milorad looks thoughtful for a moment then shakes his head. “I don’t think he’s that close… I don’t think so. Besides, what about? You did everything right by the book.”

“And? What does ‘the book’ suggest how to break up a fight between nine-year-olds without joining in?”

“I don’t know,” Milorad smirks. “There are coaches who swear by that. Remember in Beijing during the semifinals when that Chinese coach slapped his athlete?”

Michael rolls his eyes. No way he’ll ever forget that – swimmers from all nations were gaping like they couldn’t believe their eyes. “That’s not really how we do it in America, I think.”  

Milorad, too, shakes his head. “No, in Serbia coaches aren’t allowed to thrash someone either. The Chinese really are… something else.”

“I don’t think the Chinese do that on a regular basis, either. That one was a psycho.” And just like that the Beijing topic is off the table. Michael doesn’t want to take chances, though, and makes a point of steering the conversation into a different geographical direction. “So how is it going in Krac – In Kago –“

Milorad grins. “In Kragujevac, you mean?”

“Hey, it’s the effort that counts.” For a second, Michael feels tempted to ask if the roof to the swim hall still holds up (contrary to when Cavic was supposed to train there after the Beijing Olympics), but decides against it.

“It’s great, actually,” Milorad says. “Coaching adults is – well, it’s different from age group coaching, obviously. Much easier if you ask me. I’ll go back there in a couple of weeks, before our boys and girls leave for Barcelona, to help with the preparations.”

Michael is surprised to find that the prospect of Cavic leaving soon bugs him somewhat. In fact, he suspects that someone – possibly Bottom – asked Milorad to take care of him a little bit, to prevent him from (again) becoming Ann Arbor’s very own Robinson Crusoe. Cavic of all people as Michael’s Friday is not as unlikely a choice as one might think: they are the only former Olympians of all the assistant coaches, past rivalry fading into the background when they one-up each other about who’s in worse shape by now and block the lunch hour for what they’ve dubbed “retiree course”.

Prior to his move, Michael had somehow managed to forget about how small everything here is and how close to each other the Wolverines are all the time. Several of his new colleagues and students are based in his Ypsilanti neighborhood – Cavic lives within hailing distance and Bottom’s house is not far off, either.  

Clary thankfully picked Dexter which is located west of Ann Arbor when he bought a house from his Speedo endorsement money.

Michael’s first resolution – not to fight with Clary – initially seemed the hardest to stick to, but as it turns out, it’s the one he keeps alive the longest.  No small number of people was smirking at the all hands meeting in May when Michael was introduced to the Wolverine crew as a new assistant coach. At first, Michael was taken aback by that reaction until he understood that it wasn’t so much directed at him being here, but at Clary being forced to put up with his presence. Across the room, by the time Michael dared cast him a look without fearing everybody else would notice, he could see Clary’s jaw clenching tight.   

This cannot be pleasant, Michael thinks. Michigan is Clary’s home-base. He was their greatest NCAA swimmer for years and now he’s the only Olympic Champion training here, so by all rights he should feel accepted and appreciated – not question whether he’s jinxed not only for Michael coming back but also about everyone wagging their tongues about their supposed feud. People here have been asking on occasion what it’s like for Michael having to breathe the same air as Clary, so he assumes it’s the very same thing the other way round – and possibly in not so diplomatic tones.

Michael can’t say if he empathizes or not. A year ago, the answer would have been clear, but the lines have blurred without him really paying attention. The thing is: when Ryan or Nathan hint at Tyler having a crush on him or when Jon and Bob confirm it in even more explicit tones, that evokes a strange kind of bad conscience in Michael. In such moments, he can almost put himself in Tyler’s shoes and imagine what that must have been like.  

But when he’s face to face with Clary, the guy riles him up so much that he has a hard time to remember those feelings from before at all.    

By now, there are two Tylers in Michael’s mind. There’s the one who is brash and self-righteous and a firm believer in his own moral superiority. And there’s the other one who is vulnerable and insecure and unaware of his own desires. One trash-talks him in public, the other spies on him from a distance. _Both_ are bitter and scared.    

Michael has been wondering what would have to happen for the two Tylers to be finally introduced to one another and how they’d get along. Tyler is convinced he _only_ can’t stand Michael. He isn’t putting up a facade to cover up something else, not consciously. If it weren’t for the eyes Michael can feel on himself constantly, he would probably buy into the official storyline also.

Being watched like this changes his own behavior, too. Michael doesn’t bother to stare back, but there are things he does only when he’s completely sure of having Tyler’s full attention. So on his very first day, he made a show of stopping in front of the timetable at the Natatorium – and sticks with this pattern day after day.

Clary’s times aren’t special. In fact, they’re nowhere close to where they were during the build-up to London. Michael wants to make sure Tyler is aware of him keeping track.   

It’s on one of those occasions, Tyler standing in a short distance after evening practice and talking to someone on the phone, that Michael overhears his name. When his eyes dart towards Clary, wondering what he’s up to now, he finds that for once, Tyler isn’t watching in return.    

“Er, yes? He’s next to me.”

Michael looks up in surprise and finds that Clary is staring into space with a frown. “Why? What do you want –“ The reply doesn’t seem to please him. He grimaces and holds out his cell phone towards Michael. “For you.”

Michael blinks. He’s pretty much at a loss about who would call him via Clary – Jon maybe? Hesitantly he takes Tyler’s Samsung and answers with a wary “Phelps”. The voice on the other hand is young, female and slightly breathless as it assails Michael with a gush of rapidly-spoken words. It doesn’t take him long to understand whom he’s – well, talking to doesn’t really apply.

Once the meaning of her words sinks through, Michael tries to pull the brakes with “But –“s and “If –“s and “I really don’t know”s, but completely in vain. He’s left with no further options but to listen very carefully and eventually write down the address as it’s being repeated for the second time in the same brimming voice that just won’t take no for an answer.

“Yeah,” Michael says, left slightly shaken and wondering what the fuck just hit him. “I think I got that.” Incredulous, he hands the phone back to Clary.   

“Now – wait, Carol,” Tyler starts and gives his phone a puzzled look when he realizes that the line has gone dead. He suppresses a curse.  

Michael raises a brow, recovering somewhat from his own shock. “You don’t have that much to say at home, do you?” he inquires with fake pity. 

“Try and live with someone for longer than a weekend, then you can talk,” Tyler shoots back, too irritated to even ask about what his girlfriend wanted from his favorite enemy.

Michael doesn’t waste time searching for a witty retort. He doesn’t need one, either, with the bomb he’s about to drop.

“I’m invited for dinner.” 


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carol blinks. Statements such as this pretty much go against everything she’s ever been taught about how to treat other people, fitting in and good behavior in general. Meet Michael Phelps, Tyler thinks.

II

Moaning to Carol about Michael blatantly checking out his times probably was a mistake, Tyler thinks in retrospect. She never gave him another telling-off as she did about Lindsey but for obvious reasons, she didn’t fancy the idea of him going on about the same shit day after day either. As pissed as he is about this foray of hers, he can sort of sympathize with her need for a clearance.  

He has been a pain in the ass, recently.

They met at the Olympic training center in Colorado during the summer of 2010. At the time, Carol was still an active pentathlete for the University of Massachusetts. Although it was more or less clear already that she was going to concentrate on her degree in graphic design in the future, she has always supported Tyler’s own ambitions. When he decided to forego his final season at UM and turn pro instead, she immediately backed him up, understanding that this was about his childhood dream and he was going for it. She is perceptive, caring and fiercely loyal.

She also knows how to deflate his ego whenever the situation calls for it (which is exactly what he needs, Tyler’s friends and family largely agree). Her stubbornness matches his own – and sometimes it's bloody hard to follow through with certain of her ideas.  

Like this, for example.

It’s fairly obvious that Carol thinks this dinner invitation a good strategy for them to work things over, get to know each other a bit better which might ultimately lead to them getting along or at least to Tyler getting his priorities straight. But the truth is Carol has never really talked to Michael. She’s never had that fleeting gaze directed at and away from her. She doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into by inviting him into their house.

Bottom buttonholed him right after evening practice which makes Tyler almost late for dinner while Michael managed to be there in time. When Tyler steps into the kitchen, he’s looking at some pictures pinned to the fridge door. There is Tyler on the victory podium in London, holding up his ( _only_ , his mind supplies without being asked) Olympic gold medal. There are pictures of the dogs, of a Christmas party at his parents’ house in Riverside. Tyler looks at the snapshots and keepsakes with _his_ eyes and starts feeling self-conscious which quickly turns to resentment. Michael has no place in here, for fuck’s sake. 

Logically, there isn’t the slightest reason for a fit of awkwardness: the new house is a dream come true. It makes Tyler’s head spin to think about how long they would’ve needed to save up to afford a place like this with a large living-room and fireplace, a guest room and a patio. Carol was downright besides herself when they moved in, bringing in all her enthusiasm, taste and creativity to furnish and decorate the rooms.

Michael being here is the weirdest thing that’s happened to Tyler in a long time.

“That’s Riverside, then?” Michael asks the second Tyler comes in.

“No, this one was taken in Springfield last summer. That’s my cousin,” Carol points out. “And my little sister. And you know him, of course.” She laughs.

“If I didn’t know him,” Michael makes noncommittal movement towards Tyler, “I’d probably think, what a nice-looking couple, just the kind of people I’d want to hang out with. No offense.”

“None taken,” Tyler replies. “I know where you park.”

Carol fruitlessly tries to stifle a laugh while simultaneously giving Tyler a reprimanding look. Strangely enough that little insult hurled his way helps Tyler finding his feet. They’re on his territory for once.

“How about you two sit down already?” Carol suggests. “Here, you can take the salad outside – and you the pasta.”

Tyler raises his brows. She really made an effort. Kitchen work is not something Carol is usually very committed to. _Let’s hope the stuff is edible._ She interprets his reaction correctly and flips him the bird.

Michigan picked the shit end as far as climate is concerned. In winter, no natural barrier whatsoever keeps the icy polar air from being whirled in. As for summer, there is no barrier towards the south either, so the heat creeps in and the lakes all around are making it humid, too. But the real summer heat is still a few weeks off and if you don’t move too much it’s okay to sit on the patio in the evening, to stare into space, do your utmost to ignore each other and not exchange a single word as if you both were socially retarded.   

“You two are the lamest,” Carol announces when she steps out on the patio, the delicious smell of roasted meat filling the air. “Anyway, dig in.” They don’t need to be told twice. There’s enough chicken, pasta and salad on the table in front of them to feed not one but several active swimmers. Also, it turns out to be quite tasteful.

“I wasn’t sure how much to make,” Carol shrugs when she puts pasta on her plate and from there the conversation quickly moves to adjusting nutrition after stopping training as an athlete. Michael reveals how one of his sisters who holds a lot of interest for that topic helped him somewhat. They all agree, though, that vegetarianism isn’t an option, no matter how thoroughly Jon tries to promote it.

If Michael is flummoxed by this invitation – and Tyler can’t honestly see how he wouldn’t be – he’s hiding it very well, even when Carol out of the blue asks: “So, is your girlfriend coming up to visit you?”

Michael grimaces. “Bad topic.”

Tyler looks up, unsurprised. Not that he’s keeping track of whom Michael is dating, but he is almost certain this reaction is an act. Michael is not the type to grieve about relationships gone bad, or if at all, then not for a long time. He’d have to change his mating habits as Tyler remembers them from Ann Arbor six years ago drastically for someone to finally stick around.

Carol who is less familiar with what Tyler secretly calls Michael’s fake openness sympathetically clicks her tongue. “It takes some luck to find someone, I think.” 

“Oh, I seem to get lucky on a regular basis,” Michael replies with an ironic smile that belies the flippancy of his words. “I just can never make them stick around, I guess.”

“And why is that, you think?”

“Carol, that’s really none of our business!” Tyler blurts out.

Michael laughs, completely unfazed by the deeply personal question. “Lack of deeper interest on both sides, I would say.”

That is also a way of putting it, Tyler thinks. In the past, there have been more derisive insinuations about Michael’s habit of dating exclusively airheaded bimbos – ranging from how he supposedly has to buy female company to him having some fundamental problem with women. Tyler can’t say if any of those apply, but conversely, it’s probably fair to assume that woman look at him and see fame and money combined with a swimmer’s stature… and not the legendary inner values. Which is just as well since Michael famously doesn’t have a lot of those.  

So the combination of Olympic nimbus, broad shoulders and a height of six feet four might just work out for him. He may not be good-looking in a conventional sense – not like, let’s say, Ryan Lochte is – but certain features of his are not completely unpleasant to look at.   

Nice hands, nice eyes…

Tyler’s gaze travels from said hands to said eyes and freezes when he realizes with a tiny rush of adrenaline that they are directed straight at him, observing what he’s doing. Their expression is bemused, some sort of soft amusement shining through, the source of which Tyler cannot figure out.   

“The truth is…  most people just bore the living hell out of me.”

Carol blinks. Statements such as this pretty much go against everything she’s ever been taught about how to treat other people, fitting in and good behavior in general. _Meet Michael Phelps,_ Tyler thinks.

“Well – did you ever try and pick someone from among the small rest of them who doesn’t?”

Tyler clears his throat. “Please, does Michael look like he cares?” 

“Thanks, Tyler.” 

“Pleasure.”   

Carol props her head in her hand, exasperated. “How about we change the topic?”

“Okay, no more talking about sex, what else is there?” Michael narrows his eyes as if thinking hard about it.

“Training, obviously,” Carol smiles. “How are you faring? Is this actually the first time you’re teaching?”

“Apart from clinics and stuff.” Michael offers a few anecdotes about his pupils while poking fun at himself as only an overachiever in his true field of specialization can do ( _like I’ve any idea at all what I’m doing_ ). He’s gotten better at communicating with people over the years, Tyler notices and realizes all of a sudden that he’s never had the chance to notice this before because he’s never really had a conversation with Michael since the latter left Michigan. And even if so, he probably wouldn’t have noticed anyway if something about Michael’s conduct had changed, because by then, their behavioral patterns when it came to each other were already in place.  

“I read your latest interview.” 

Tyler freezes. It’s been almost a year, but the word interview from Michael's mouth sets all his senses to alert. Which Michael was aiming at, no doubt. His immediate reflex is to scan his memory for possible slights against his ex-teammate before he remembers that they weren’t talking about Michael at all.

“So you want to leave Rio with three golds?” 

Why is it that things you tell the press always sound completely different when someone quotes them to you, Tyler wonders.

“You didn’t really specify but let’s see if I guessed right. There’s the 200 back, the 400 IM… but the third one I can’t seem to figure out.” 

Tyler rolls his eyes at him. Michael’s never played that card before: the race Tyler supposedly picked all those years ago to be able to train with him. They never really talked about the 200 fly, the race in which Tyler’s fifth place at an international level seems cemented for all eternity. They never exchanged experiences, Michael never handed down tips and when they were competing against each other in Rome or in London, didn’t pay him any more attention than he would have a stranger.  

“Are you planning to participate in one of the relays?” Michael asks amicably.

Tyler thinks about strangling him. He thinks about putting his hands around Michael’s neck and squeezing the air out of him. “You know if you’d ever given a shit about which races your teammates compete in, you would know which one I was talking about.”

Michael nods, a fake bewildered look on his face. “And you plan to win it in Rio with the times you’re currently handing in?” 

“Stalk much?” Tyler snaps, completely oblivious to the fact that he just accused Michael of disregarding his fellow competitors – or ex-competitors.   

“I’m leaving that to you,” Michael says coolly. “If you haven’t noticed I’m walking by your sheets every day when I’m teaching at the Natatorium.”  

“Yeah, what a coincidence.” Like he could’ve failed to become aware of that. “Either way nobody asked your opinion about my times. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s the famous year after the Olympics.”

Michael smiles – and Tyler remembers too late how Michael spent the _year after the Olympics_ while he was an active athlete: he became the youngest male to ever set up a world record after Sydney, won four golds and a silver after Athens and handed in two fly world records after Beijing that remain unbroken to this very day.  

Tyler knows better than anyone he hasn’t given his full attention to training during the last year, but what is he supposed to say, honestly? That the whole circus became kind of boring when Michael wasn’t around? It’s not like Michael can hold him accountable on anything he does.

Unsurprisingly, the evening is wrapped up quickly after that. It’s written on Carol’s face that this whole thing was probably not a great idea even before she says so to Michael in a slightly embarrassed tone.

“On the contrary,” Michael flashes her a grin. “This has been a great rehearsal for Jon’s birthday party.”

 _Oh joyous._ Of course, Jon would invite Michael, too.

Tyler turns to Carol as soon as they hear the machine being started outside. “I told you he’s good at being an asshole.”

“You don’t think you might be a little oversensitive? It’s not so bad what he says about you when you’re not around.”

“How so?”

“Right before you came in, we were talking about pentathlon and he said it figures that you’d have a girlfriend who’s good at several things since you’re also known for being adept at many things at once.”

“That’s his way of stating I get bogged down in too many hobbies and that’s why I’ll never be as good a swimmer as he is.”

“That’s your way of stating you’re paranoid.” She steps closer to him, putting a hand around the nape of his neck, fingertips stroking softly, contrasting the firmness of her voice. “And he’s not a swimmer. He’s retired, remember? He’s just a regular guy now who teaches kids.”

She’s right, of course. But logical arguments cannot change feelings. At this moment, all Tyler can think is that he let Michael get away again. That he didn’t say what he really wanted to say, didn’t act how he really wanted to.  

As usual, after the fact he can think of a thousand things to say or do, to strike as strongly and expertly as possible, and as usual, he’s overcome by the overwhelming urge to pull Michael back.


	3. Three

III

It happens just like Tyler knew all along it would: by June, Lochte's times are back to good, if not necessarily overwhelming. They are sufficient to make him the overall winner of the Grand Prix series in any case. It’s not lost in Tyler, though, that Ryan doesn’t take the same pleasure in swimming or the same pride in his own abilities as he once did. Before London, that is – before the 4x100 free. 

He’ll still laugh and joke and play cards with Berens, Adrian and Dwyer, but at the same time, he’s… subdued somehow (and that is certainly something Tyler never believed he would live to see). Possibly, he simply feels he’s getting older – he’s probably considering what he’ll do after Rio and how he’ll keep up the motivation until then. It’s kind of brave of Ryan to stick around and work on his times until they at least somewhat resemble the ones he headed into London with.

Unfortunately, nothing of the sort can be said so far about Tyler’s training results. With his season’s best in the 200 back, he could never have hoped to come anywhere close to setting an Olympic record a year ago. Then again, as he said to Michael already, it _is_ the year after the Olympics. There were friends to catch up with, car races to attend, a house to buy… compared to what Michael pulled off after Beijing, Tyler’s been almost a model swimmer. The harder it comes to him that Michael of all people got to shove that one down his throat the last time they talked.

It’s revenge, of course – Tyler’s own words are coming back to haunt him. Never is it a coincidence that Michael will pick on the one thing Tyler takes most pride in and in turn gave him the most shit about: work ethics.     

And he _has_ been working hard during the last months leading up to Barcelona. Not that Michael would know the details – he doesn’t make a habit of checking in on the long distance group training sessions but prefers to make remarks when no one asked him to.

He’s stopped monitoring Tyler’s times on a daily basis, though.

It still makes him seethe.  

Especially since he knows that he won’t be back in shape come trials no matter how much effort he continues to put into daily practice. Bottom knows this as well, occasionally keeping him after practice for a one-on-one pep talk. By now there isn’t much they can do about it but do their best and hope that it will somehow get him through qualifications and bear fruit in Barcelona.

It’s on one of those evenings and at a fairly late time, too, that Tyler spots Michael sitting alone in the tiny office he shares with the other assistant coaches, typing away at his laptop. Through the small glass panel facing the Natatorium, Tyler can see someone approaching him from behind – a young, blonde woman in a curious combination of grey pants obviously belonging to a business suit and a black top with spaghetti straps.

She’s on tiptoes, clearly not wanting to give him a heads-up, and in a flowing movement puts both her palms over his eyes. Tyler can see Michael smile as if he expected the playful ambush. His lips are moving, then so are hers when she replies and lets her hands fall away from his eyes. He half-turns around to her and pulls her onto his lap, her knees setting on the chair on either side of his thighs, leaving Tyler in no doubt as to how the two of them relate to each other.

And isn’t that just typical, Tyler thinks as he watches Michael gently slide his knuckles across her cheek. A week ago, he practically claimed to be single _and_ distraught about it, but now he’s already scored the next one. Witnessing this brings back old memories of pre-Beijing campus parties, Michael leaving with a different hottie every other time.  

He certainly doesn’t waste any of the latter.

Visually, this one resembles the last one… or one of the last ones, the wannabe model who came along to London. It’s hard to say how many there were in between. Michael is at once secretive and completely open about whom he’s spending time with and for which purpose.

Better knowledge indicates to Tyler that he should leave, that he should have left a minute ago. But for some reason he cannot break away and he cannot look away from that scene, either. It’s like something from a movie, complete to the way how the strap of her dress slides over a tanned shoulder when she puts her delicate arms around his neck. Michael’s hands seem impossibly large around her tiny waist. There is something smooth about the way they’re moving and touching each other, something _studied_ – almost as if they know they have an audience.

Which they absolutely cannot. Impromptu, Tyler can’t think of anything more embarrassing than Michael discovering him right now. On the other hand, Michael is distracted. Tyler watches Blondie lower her head to Michael’s neck as his head sinks back against the backrest. He runs his fingers through her wheat-colored hair as her lips are gliding over his throat, his own parting ever so slightly.  

For whatever reason, the image makes Tyler’s mouth go dry. He’s never seen Michael like this.  

She’s lifting her head again, small fingers stroking Michael’s chest through the fabric of his shirt. From where he’s standing, Tyler cannot see Michael’s eyes, if he’s looking at her with affection – what he offers seems to be a lazy smile. But for Blondie, this is obviously enough of an invitation to continue things elsewhere, because she takes a look at his laptop and says something that has Michael in turn nod briefly and get up from the chair.

This shatters the spell Tyler’s found himself under. He finally exhales the breath he hasn’t been aware of holding inside. Inside the cabin, they are collecting their stuff, Michael shutting down his PC, the girl picking up a black leather briefcase that he unceremoniously takes from her and slings over his shoulder. They exchange a smirk as if this is a private joke between them.

Lights in the Natatorium have been killed a small while ago, so they cannot see him standing there when they walk down the corridor. His heart is beating wildly in his chest.  

“ – cost me my last nerve.”

“Why? He try to grope your ass again?”

Blondie snorts. “My sister’s always like _You have the coolest job in the world_ – yeah, right. Fending off rich old gobblers is totally my idea of a good time.”

“Stick to the rich, young gobblers, why don’t you,” Michael teases.

She turns around to him and Tyler carefully ducks around the next best corner to remain invisible. “One or two of those are acceptable, I guess.” She has to get on her toes to accept his kiss before they head out of the doors. Tyler makes sure to wait about five minutes before heading the same way.

The next morning, as they arrive at Jon’s house for the annual birthday brunch, Tyler is surprised – and t the same time isn’t – to see that Michael is on his own. Maybe Blondie is still lolling around in bed after fucking his brains out last night. Maybe she just dropped by for that purpose and took the next plane out of Michigan straight away.

With his wife still teaching English literature at UM, Jon is dividing his time between Ann Arbor and Fullerton. Instead of a birthday party, there’s always this extended breakfast with heaps of waffles and pancakes (made with egg white, no yolks), vegetable smoothies and fruit salad. Last year, there was a considerably smaller group attending and Jon seems particularly happy to have Michael over. 

Their love and respect for Jon might be the one thing about which Michael and Tyler are completely of one mind.

As for Michael, he seems as laid-back as Tyler has rarely seen him – certainly not since he took up teaching here. _Probably didn’t get laid ever since until last night,_ Tyler thinks as he watches Michael and Carol exchange a friendly hug. When Michael looks at him and says hi, Tyler can just stare back with a dry mouth and finally gives him a jerky nod after Carol steps on his foot.

Michael gives him a slightly curious look, but then someone pulls him away to talk to someone else and Tyler is left with Carol and her shaking her head at him. Her eyes are sparkling nevertheless. As it happens, they had some pretty great sex of their own last night after he got home. Between Michael’s relaxed, indefinitely sated attitude and Carol’s glow, Tyler feels his own nerves fluttering ever so slightly.  

Last night, in their bed, he was mesmerized by how the full moon dipped Carol’s exposed neck in alabaster light, but now, seated at the table in the Urbancheks’ living room, diagonally opposite Michael, it’s _his_ throat that attracts Tyler’s gaze and it’s the memory of how his hazel eyes fluttered shut when the girl touched her lips to it that haunts him.  

Only now it hits him what was really happening last night. He watched his favorite enemy engage in foreplay with some random girl and later acted out what he saw with his girlfriend. Apart from that, everything’s fine. It’s just another day in the life of Tyler Clary.

Tyler prefers not to spend too much time analyzing any of this.

Barcelona dominates almost the complete conversation – or rather, the upcoming trials do. Tyler halfway expects Michael to repeat some of his slurs towards Tyler from earlier this week, but he doesn’t. He has a well-developed sense of when to speak his mind with whom being present and contents himself with letting everybody else do the talking.

Then, as was to be expected, Jon has a lot of questions about Michael’s work with the age group and promptly, everybody looks his way as if on cue. Tyler can see him stiffen ever so slightly at being the center of attention all of a sudden. He remembers Lochte telling him about this – how much Michael used to loath the constant eyes on him and how he only got better over the years at outwardly showing just how much. Ryan had also expressed his hopes that Tyler would get better at understanding Michael and reading his true motivation into what he does once they’d get to see more of each other.

Tyler suppresses a groan. Something tells him that what he got to see last night wasn’t the kind of situation Ryan was picturing when telling him this. What’s wrong with him, he wonders that this short, sensual display he witnessed leaves him with that strong an impression. He was never supposed to see Michael like this and now he doesn’t know how to ban the image from his mind.

Rarely has Tyler been more grateful that his thoughts are all his own. Still when Michael’s gaze unexpectedly catches his own for a second, it feels like having a fiery arrow shot through his chest.


	4. Four

IV

Getting up early to make it to the golf course before Win has to get catch her plane and Michael is expected at Jon’s place was a doomed idea from the start. This is only the second night they spent together, the first one having been a spur of the moment thing in an Orlando hotel room, but Michael is already experiencing a kind of deja-vu when he wakes up with her fairy-girl profile next to him on the pillow. Just like last time, she’s asleep in her stomach, arms pulled tight against her sides, and just like last time, the view of her small, fragile shoulder-blade makes him smile as he traces his fingers against it. An answering smile forms on her lips before she even opens her eyes. They never make it out of bed until the clock shows eleven thirty and they have to scramble for lost clothes and bathroom items.

If she’s perplexed by his chosen whereabouts and his current occupation, she never says so. All he receives is a cheerful “I’ll never fully get you,” as she’s standing on the small patio of his rented house, coffee mug in hand. It’s quite a significant remark, Michael thinks. She doesn’t get him and she’s totally fine with it.

By comparison with most women, dating Win is easy. She doesn’t work herself up over what they are doing – or how much and how often they are doing it. She’s too busy with her own schedule to worry about how deep his feelings are or how she will have to behave in order to deepen them. If she just wants to have fun, good for her. If she’s investing in a future tied to the facade geared towards the media they can create together, he’ll leave it to her how Michigan and the Wolverines will fit into that picture.

As soon as her cab is gone from his view, Michael takes the time for a good look at what he chose. At this hour, the upright citizens of Ypsilanti are to be found either at the country club or at the lunch table. The neat streets are deserted, the branches of the trees are moving in the summer breeze, the sky above it all is ridiculously blue.

He thinks of this perfect day stretching before him with absolutely nothing expected from him except for wishing Jon a happy birthday, of relocating classes to the outdoor pools come Monday, of Dave clocking 34.45 on the fifty meters freestyle earlier this week, and he can’t help but feel like the luckiest person on earth.

(Though he doubts he’ll feel that way after the first snow fall.)

At Jon’s place, Michael delivers his birthday wishes, exchanges greetings with the people he knows and lets himself be introduced to some he doesn’t. He flops down on the couch next Milorad who promptly includes him into the conversation he’s having with Clary’s girlfriend. Michael feels slightly dazed from last night’s activities (that was a dry spell of nearly a month, he marvels) and the long, deep sleep that followed, but not unpleasantly so. In his current state of mind, it takes him a while to notice that Clary’s acting weird – weirder than usual, that is.

Not that Michael expected him to utter a cry of delight at the sight of him, but all of a sudden, he cannot meet Michael’s eyes anymore and downright shies away from even greeting him. Carol has to nudge him pointedly for him to shake hands with Michael. Even for Clary, that is a bit extreme. Especially since from Michael’s perception, there is no comprehensive reason for that behavior. What can have happened in the five, six days since Carol’s dinner invitation?

Admittedly, their last real conversation qualifies as a fight, but Michael decided to pull the brakes afterwards. He still checks on Tyler’s times occasionally, but never does so with Clary being present. They exchanged a few words now and then over the last week, somehow without it resulting in the next argument. Now – with that pattern being broken for inexplicable reasons – Michael immediately finds himself checking for what he could have done to provoke that kind of behavior.

He’s inclined to question his own sanity when he realizes what he’s doing. If Clary wants to act like an idiot, so be it. Who knows what the hell goes on in his head?

With several Wolverines having their eyes set on participating in this year’s World Championships, Barcelona is literally on everybody’s tongues these days. In between, though, Jon pulls Michael aside to ask about his experiences with coaching the Cubs so far. Michael tells him about Dave’s new personal best and the problems he’s been having with that particular student of his.

Jon hesitates with his answer. “Have you met Dave’s parents yet?” he finally asks.

Michael shakes his head. “I’ve hardly met any parents so far.” He’s grateful for that, too. In the beginning, he feared that people would stop by during practice just to gape at him.

“He’s a foster child, did you know?”

Michael didn’t. “That’s interesting, actually.”

“His real parents were addicted to one thing or another, so he was taken from them a couple of years ago. He’s been living with those foster-parents of his ever since. I believe they’re quite well off and couldn’t have children of their own.” His voice trails off as if he expects Michael to catch on to something he’s only implying.

“How do you know stuff like that? You haven’t been here in what? Three years?”

“Coaches talk,” Jon replies with a smile.

Michael reprocesses what he just learned. When he first met Dave, an image was formed in his head – and it had nothing whatsoever to do with the scenario Jon describes. Even so, a few minor things make more sense now. For example, it wasn’t lost on Michael that Dave’s things are much _nicer_ than those of his training mates. Combined with Dave’s tendency to bullying others this led to Michael giving him a certain label more or less from the start that read: spoilt kid, not a care in the world, self-righteous, giving others a hard time.

Surreptitiously, Michael throws a glance at Clary. Here is another perfect example of that species, he can’t help thinking. Michael vividly remembers Tyler _strutting_ into Canham Natatorium one fine September day in 2007 like he already owned the place. Michael can’t say if Tyler suspects a secret reason behind Michael’s instant dislike of him, but if so, it would be typical if he ascribed Michael’s emphatic aloofness to the fact that they were competitors, specializing in the same strokes, the same races. 

Michael prefers that to the truth. He laid eyes on Tyler Clary that very first time and saw not him as an individual but a long line of douchebags in various ages he had to deal with growing up. Of course, it wasn’t Tyler’s fault that he resembled them or somewhat had the same antics. From what Michael learned later on about Tyler’s background, it’s fair to conclude that not everything was a walk in the park for him. He, too, is the child of divorced parents, just like Michael is. His biological father also seems to be a nonentity.

Still, Michael couldn’t go back in time and change that very first impression.    

Ironically, nowadays Tyler’s almost unassuming compared with former times when he expected to grow into the next great thing in swimming. When it didn’t quite work out as planned, he hit on the idea of making his shortcomings his brand name until he believed in his so-called blue-collar approach himself. Which is to show, Michael thinks, that his mother was right all along, when she insisted that over-confident behavior often serves to cover insecurities.  

It also is proof of how one shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. Michael grimaces. Shouldn’t he of all people know a prejudice when he sees one, even if it is his own? He seriously cannot let his own hang-ups about loudmouthed, popular kids get in the way. His pupils deserve better.

Toasts being made to Michael Klueh und Emily Brunemann who got engaged the other night shake Michael from his thoughts. He murmurs his congrats as Jon drags him along and gets ready to withdraw into a corner of his choice again, but before he has the chance to do so, Emmy turns to him with a curious look on her face. “Was that your girlfriend? The blond girl with the cab? We passed by your house earlier today.”

Michael does his best not to snort into his coffee. This is _exactly_ why he’s always resented living in small places like Ann Arbor: everybody has their nose in everybody’s business and practically all the time. You can’t do anything (get wasted, run a red light, kiss your two-nights-stand the morning after) without the whole bloody neighborhood paying unwanted attention.

“I’m working on it,” Michael says with a lopsided smile. He’s not sure what Win is at this point in time – or if he’s working on things with her.   

Too late Michael remembers that this suppressed laugh and the casual way in which he dismisses his presumed love interest probably aren’t considered appropriate by these two with their plans longtime commitment and everybody present being so excited about it (or acting that way). He’s turning into a cynic, Michael thinks and involuntarily zooms in on the tiny, maybe unconscious gestures made by the people around him – glances being exchanged, faces turning serious ever so slightly, wheels turning behind their foreheads as they scan their memories for proof of a healthy dating history on his part.

Judging from the slightly embarrassed but also curious looks not quite directed at him, they can’t find any. Klueh clears his throat, Emily seems to scan her poor brain for an innocuous topic to talk about and Clary – Clary is staring at the table in front of him as if there were something downright fascinating about it.

Suddenly, the whole situation seems hilarious. Michael feels a genuine laugh threatening to spill from his mouth – which is about the last thing he wants to happen.

Unfortunately, that’s when Tyler finally looks him in the eye.

It’s a character trait of Clary’s universally acknowledged that he believes everything that goes on around him to be somehow directed at him. His eyes darken at the sight of Michael fighting a conniption. Clearly, he can’t imagine not being the source of Michael’s amusement.   

“What?” Michael can’t resist calling him out. Immediately, he feels the people around them freeze.

“Nothing.” Outwardly, Clary is as cool as a dog’s snout. “Just surprised, I guess.”

Michael raises a brow. “You plan to add something further or am I supposed to guess at the rest?”

“Didn’t you mention something to Carol about being single just the other day? That’s a new thing, then, I assume?” He can’t get any closer to outright accusing Michael of having been lying.

“No, I didn’t,” Michael retorts. “And why do you care if somebody else takes an active interest in me or not?” It’s only when he sees several jaws at once hit the floor that he notices what he just said. Somebody else. Somebody else than Tyler. He looks at the people surrounding them – frowns, puzzlement, second-guessing their own sense of hearing and deciding for the sake of their own peace of mind that they must have gotten it wrong.   

To Michael’s eternal gratefulness, Carol is in conversation with Jon’s wife at the other end of the living-room. He realizes just now how much other people’s suggestions and conjectures have turned Tyler’s infatuation into a fact, at least in Michael’s head that is. Luckily, Tyler himself doesn’t seem to catch on the implication and then, Jon clears his throat and slightly less subtly than under normal circumstances changes the topic.       

Milorad – who will never dismiss anything someone says as just a weird way of phrasing, but likes to get to the bottom of things – is waiting for Michael when he crosses the lawn to get to his car after the party draws to a close around the late afternoon. “Well,” he drawls, ”tension between you two sticks out a mile, I just wasn’t aware it’s tension of _that_ kind.” 

“It’s not,” Michael says immediately.    

Milorad gives him a doubting look. They engage in a short staring contest, Cavic trying to figure out what’s going on and Michael trying to figure out how much he can trust him with.

Michael heaves a sigh. “How about I buy you a beer?” Then he remembers Milorad has a post-retirement diet of his own which involves a zero tolerance policy as far as alcohol is concerned. “Or a carrot juice,” he quickly adds.


End file.
